


Sherlock Drabble Collection

by mydeira



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydeira/pseuds/mydeira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted and sundry drabbles set in the Sherlock BBC 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Drabble Collection

**Author's Note:**

> Written in January 2011 based on prompts from sadbhyl.

**_Sarah/Sherlock, John's pistol_**  
The gun was heavy in Sarah’s hand.

“No. Here.” Sherlock guided the barrel under his chin.

Sarah shivered, wishing it were from fear.

Sherlock’s blue eyes danced with merriment that made other people’s blood run cold. “You are a rare one, aren’t you?”

Grinding her pussy against Sherlock’s prominent erection, Sarah grinned. “So are you.”

“What is most amusing is that this little fantasy doesn’t belong to either of us.”

Bound in the corner John let out a muffled groan, pupils blown wide with arousal.

It was really difficult to say which of the three of them was more twisted.

  
 ** _John/Lestrade, police car_**  
Hands cuffed behind him, Greg was helpless to do anything but let the bonnet of the cruiser and his partner support him.

“How many nights?” The voice was gravely, breath warm against his ear.

“Too many,” he groaned as his trousers pooled around his ankles. The cool evening air was a caress against his too hot skin.

“Just like this.” Tongue followed by blunt teeth clearly marking his skin.

“Always like this.”

Skillful fingers slipped between his cheeks, probing for entrance. “Oh, Greg, what would Sherlock say?”

“He’d call us both idiots, John, and say it took us long enough.”

  
 ** _Sherlock, masturbation_**  
Long limbs straddled wide, Sherlock lay naked on his bed. He wore a look of intense focus, dark brows drawn together over closed eyes. His left hand moved at a steady pace along his cock, a rhythm familiar to John and every other man who’d hit puberty.

Sherlock soon came with a muttered, “Damn.”

Pale eyes blinked open and fixated on John. “Well?”

“If you can still think and analyze during, you are definitely doing it wrong.”

“I told you I’m horrible at distracting myself.”

Slipping off his robe, John crawled onto the bed beside Sherlock. “You are utterly hopeless.”

  
 ** _Sherlock and Mike Stamford in the lab (how do they know each other enough for Mike to be setting him up?)_**  
Acquaintance was probably being generous, but Sherlock had spoken to Mike Stamford on more than one occasion when the man happened into the lab at St. Bart’s. He was amiable of nature and didn’t expect anything when he came in.

So Sherlock felt utterly safe in musing out loud, “I would make a horrible flatmate.”

Mike blinked, then smiled bemusedly. “I always figured you for the solitary sort.”

“Needs must. Found a place. Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock turned his full attention back to the microscope.

Used to Sherlock’s abrupt manner, Mike said, “Well, all right, then,” and continued about his business.

  
 ** _Sherlock in disguise_**  
John’s phone chimed.

 _Require assistance. SH_

“You’re in the next bloody room, Sherlock. You could, I don’t know, just ask. Out loud.”

 _This is more entertaining. SH_

 _Now would be appreciated. SH_

John set aside his laptop and headed to Sherlock’s room. He wouldn’t have any peace otherwise.

He froze in the doorway, greeted by the pale expanse of Sherlock’s back, made even more stark by the sequined garment bunched at his waist.

“Oh, dear God…I don’t want to know.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Sherlock grinned. “Yes, you do. Manage to zip me up and I might even tell you.”

  
 ** _Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, an offer she can't refuse_**  
“So you see, Mrs. Hudson, the choice is really rather simple,” Mycroft said, then took a sip of tea.

“I still don’t understand what you want with it, Mr. Holmes.”

“That is a complicated explanation, I’m afraid.”

“Meaning that I probably don’t want to know.”

“If you like.”

She looked at the check again, then back at Mycroft. “It’s quite an outrageous sum for something so…small.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want to risk your refusing.”

Mrs. Hudson pushed the small box across to Mycroft. “I know skulls don’t have eyes, but I swear that bloody thing is always watching me.”

  
 ** _John/Sarah, coitus interruptus_**  
“God, Sarah, that—fuck! Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

A man of John’s experience should not be capable of shrieking like a girl.

Despite his best attempts to get away, Sarah remained astride John, pleased to find him still deliciously hard in spite of the interruption. Part of him enjoyed this.

“What did I tell you after the last time, Sherlock?” Sarah asked.

“That the doorway was too obvious and eventually he’d notice.”

“Exactly.”

“I wanted him to notice.”

Sighing, she finally looked at Sherlock. “Well, I wanted to get off. And you know how John can get.”

  
 ** _John finds something surprising in Sherlock's desk_**  
John needed a pen, but none were at hand.

“Should be one in my desk. Somewhere,” Sherlock instructed distractedly from the couch.

John approached the desk with trepidation. He never knew what he would find amidst the chaos. Several months into living with Sherlock and John still wasn’t used to it. He doubted he would ever be.

He found a pen almost immediately, tucked in between a cleaver, assorted finger bones, and—

“Ah. Sarah wondered what had happened to her underwear.”

“I didn’t want Mrs. Hudson chancing upon them.”

Sherlock was only a terrible liar when he wanted to be.

  
 ** _Sherlock/John, nightmare_**  
John found himself under the intense scrutiny of Sherlock, his gaze almost luminous in the predawn.

“You didn’t give me a black eye, so we can qualify this as an improvement.”

Despite the lingering emotions of the nightmare, John had to laugh. “I can always count on you for perspective.”

“Quite right.”

More than anything, John was relieved to wake up to Sherlock warm and coolly analytical beside him. The day he woke up alone, he knew he would be in trouble.

John no longer dreamed about the war. Now he was always too late to save Sherlock from himself.

  
 ** _John at a blogger meet-up_**  
“Oh…my God, you’re him, aren’t you?”

John steeled himself for the inevitable disappointment. “Sherlock Holmes's the tall one with the hair. I’m—”

“John Watson.” The young woman beamed at him. “You probably get this all the time, but I am such a fan.”

“No, I…what? Really?”

“I was in Iraq for two years. It’s nice to see that someone else who’s been there and can have a normal life after.”

“I wouldn’t say my life’s—”

“If it wasn’t for you…I don’t know.” Suddenly, the girl hugged him. “Keep writing. Even if you think it doesn’t matter, it does.”

  
 ** _John's therapist reads his blog_**  
“I’ve been keeping up on my blog.”

“Yes,” Dr. Thompson replied evenly.

“And?”

“It’s your blog, John.”

“No issues with my choice in flatmate? Or the fact I seem to have become a danger junkie?”

“Is that what you think?”

“You’re my bloody therapist. I’d like to know what _you_ think for a change.”

She pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded. “You’re no longer using your cane and you’re no longer hiding away from the world. Very remarkable progress for a few short months.”

“But?”

“The rest is for you to figure out. I’m just here to listen.”

  
 ** _Where's the riding crop now?_**  
“The answer is no, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed, the world-weary, “Why must I be surrounded by idiots?” one.

John held his ground…as much as he was able to currently bound to his bed. “Absolutely not.”

“You said you were willing to try anything once.”

“Within the limits of sanity, yes. But you are not using the same riding crop on me that you beat a dead man with!”

“I cleaned it.”

“I don’t bloody care!”

“So, heads in the fridge are acceptable, but items used on dead people are not?”

Sometimes it was easier to just go with the flow. “Yes.”

  
 ** _Dinner with Mycroft_**  
“Do you really think that’s wise?”

Mycroft froze with the salt shaker over his plate. “I don’t see that is any concern of yours, dear brother.”

Sherlock gave him a mock look of concern. “You’ve done so well on your diet; it would be a shame to ruin all that hard work with water retention.”

John wanted to crawl under the table. The bickering had been incessant since Mycroft arrived.

A foot nudged John’s under the table and he glanced up to find a reassuring smile from Sarah. “Happy Christmas,” she mouthed.

All in all, it could have been worse.

  
 _ **Sexting**  
Bored. SH_

Sarah grinned. _What are you wearing?_

There was a long delay. _Robe. As you very well know. SH_

 _Well, take it off._

 _I don’t follow. SH_

For such a brilliant man he really was thick. _Take robe off. Will alleviate boredom._

 _Now what? SH_

 _Touch yourself._

After a few moments, _Sarah, you know how touchy John is about other people using his phone. SH_

 _Only you, Sherlock._

“Sarah? You haven’t seen my phone, have you?”

She quickly shoved it under her pillow. “Try under the couch, John!”

The phone chimed. _What are you wearing? SH_

 _Only a smile._

 _  
 **Sherlock in handcuffs**_  
“You’re missing the point entirely,” John sighed, closing the handcuffs around Sherlock’s too thin wrists for the fourth time. “And you need to eat more.”

Sherlock quirked a brow as John sat back. A moment later he was free again.

John growled in frustration. “It’s not bondage if you keep freeing yourself.”

“I’m well aware of that, John. But then you wouldn’t sound like you do now.”

“And how is that?”

“Like you want to shag me within an inch of my life until I bend to your will.”

“You could just ask.”

“Oh, no, this is much more entertaining.”

  
 ** _Sherlock turns over physical evidence to Lestrade_**  
Lestrade eyed the plastic bag warily, then looked up at Sherlock. “What is that?”

“Your murder weapon.”

The fact that the corkscrew was covered in dried blood and—he swallowed—possibly brain matter would indicate as much. “And what are you doing with it?”

“Found it after your lot left the scene. Under the couch. Really, if they can’t be bothered to look in the obvious places, you might as well just give up.”

“Under?” His people were not that sloppy.

“Well, under and up inside. And you should arrest the victim’s housekeeper, he all but led me to it.”


End file.
